


Once in a Lifetime

by notluvulongtime



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:31:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3304184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notluvulongtime/pseuds/notluvulongtime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faking a relationship in order to be seen as ideal adoptive parents, Lestrade and Mycroft 'work' together to save a dog rescued from a drug cartel's puppy mill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mycitruspocket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycitruspocket/gifts).



> This is a continuation of a ficlet I wrote for an askbox prompt on tumblr. mycitruspocket was kind enough to cheer me on to keep going, so even though I ended it where I did, there is a possibility I could do more. Being a new mom to two puppies has certainly provided me with lots of material :)
> 
> In any case, I finished it too late at night; which means my brit-pickers are asleep right now. I promise that it will be beta'd properly when they are awake and available. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy my first foray into Mystrade.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters but the puppy's mine :D

*

Mycroft Holmes hated not being in control.

I mean, really? The nerve of this lowly inspector of Scotland Yard creating such a ruse to lure him out of a completely unnecessary, yet placating meeting with Prince William and the nature of his security now that a new heir was on its way?

Yet there was a certain thrill surrounding it. Must be of great importance, Mycroft mused on the car ride to Lestrade’s office. Or why else would the earthy policeman dare incur the wrath the government?

*   *   *

“Ah, there you are!”

The elder Holmes looked up over his mobile mid-text and arched an eyebrow. How dare he be kept waiting for a good twenty minutes –

“Sorry ‘bout the delay, but the interrogation of our latest subject went a bit long and Sherlock was his usual self –“

“Inspector, how does this small talk concern me?”

Greg rocked on his heels, fists firmly planted in pockets. He was nervous.

“I have a favor to ask. And please,” he took out one beefy hand, the nails always bitten to the quick – _best change that behavior with some positive reinforcement_ –

Now, now, Mikey.

_Oh do shut up, Mummy!_

“Are you all right, Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade looked worried, “May I get you a cup of coffee?”

“No, thank you. Not that swill again –“

“Ah, right,” Greg’s overly-large two front teeth made a charming appearance, “Spit it out last time. I took note of that. I asked for the budget to include a cappuccino machine this year. I can go make you a cuppa if you’d like. Or I can put on a kettle?”

Mycroft crossed and re-crossed his legs, clearly perturbed. “I’m not here for pleasantries. You created an elaborate mendacity and took me away from a very important meeting –“

“Yes, I suppose I did. That’s completely my fault and I deeply apologize. Unfortunately, your brother is very adamant about not helping me – and he would make a poor candidate anyway – so I turned to you. It’s a one time thing, requires only an hour of your time, really, and once everything’s set, you have no obligation to see it through.”

There was a pause of painful silence for about five seconds where one could hear Mycroft Holmes swallow a large bolus of saliva.

What came out next was barely a whisper. His cheeks were blooming roses. “I hope what you’re proposing isn’t offensive to our professional relationship.”

When Mycroft said “professional,” it was about all of those times he needed Lestrade to track down his brother and do the dirty field work that was below his station in life and career. And Lestrade seemed more than happy to go along with the arrangement. Even though Mycroft often illicitly hoped for something more intimate. For a man who was so bold in career, he certainly was a fantastic coward when it came to his personal life. But that was held up by baggage of a very specific time and Greg was not to blame.

The look on the inspector’s face was one of stark bewilderment, before he burst into laughter, “Oh, Mr. Holmes, what do you take me for? No, remember that last case we had, where Sherlock and John helped us trace a puppy farm to a drug cartel – where they were smuggling the dope in their stomachs?”

Mycroft predictably made a distasteful expression, “Yes.”

“Well, in the clean up, I did the rounds and fell a little head over heels,” Greg’s hand went up to scratch at the back of his head and his licked a corner of his mouth. He then stretched out his arms wide, “For a pup. He’s a large breed. Pyrenean mastiff, if you can believe. Cutest thing on the planet and I want him. Problem is RSPCA won’t rehome him to someone unless they’re in a two person living arrangement. Basically, a couple that represents stability.”

Mycroft couldn’t think of anyone more stable in the Holmes’ life than this man. Ah, Greg wanted him to grease the wheels with the animal organization –

“So anyway,” Lestrade cleared his throat, “Will you be my husband for the interview?”

It was an auspicious matter that the chair Mycroft was sitting in had sturdy arms to grasp on to. The world in that moment began to swim, the edges fuzzy and there was a metallic taste in his mouth.

“I mean, I know I’m beneath you. I don’t even – fuck I’m Eliza Doolittle, aren’t I? But think of it as being for a good cause. The cause of two lives; one human, one canine. Good for Queen and country and all that.” And then he lit the room with that dimpled smile, the one that often kept Mycroft up at night.

“When is it?”

“Well,” Greg’s eyes went wide, relaying clearly how flummoxed he was at the mission being accepted so readily, “Any time, really –“

Mycroft pushed one button on his phone. Lestrade leaned back on his desk and waited.

“Anthea? Can you bring up my schedule? I need a day open this coming week.”

There was a long pause as Greg could hear her protests on the other line.

“Of course we have a good reason. I must go with a man about a dog.”

*   *   *

The only person who could deduce Mycroft better than his little brother was their mother. She and their father had made another trip to London, this time for a musical film retrospective that included _Oliver!_ of all atrocious things, and decided to make an impromptu visit (much like a probation officer) to his town house first instead of to 221B. Unfortunately, they arrived at his doorstep the very day of the animal rescue house visit and interview. Immediately, Mummy Holmes decided to invade the kitchen.

“I’ve lost you again, Mikey. Daydreaming about that dishy D.I. undoubtedly -”

“Alliteration doesn’t suit you, Mother.”

“Don’t try to distract me, darling,” she chuckled, shaking a head of endive at him, “You’re plotting something this time. You’ve put away a good deal many family portraits on the walls in favor of the medals and framed commendations you abhor. You’re trying to impress someone, but it’s not him because he wouldn’t really give a damn, would he?”

Mycroft groaned and put his face in his well-manicured hands, “Isn’t it past two? Aren’t you going to join Father for a nap?”

“And miss all the fun? It’s happening today, isn’t it?”

“ _What’s_ happening? Oh, you mean your unannounced fugitive-like hostage takeover of my attention for an afternoon when I just might have plans?”

There was a marked flavor of panic to go along with the usual tension in his tone.

A silence of import followed, when Mummy Holmes spent a good five seconds studying her oldest son. Her face lit up; she then set aside what began as a light salad, putting on another pot to boil and preheating the oven. “I suspect that we have four hours until they arrive.”

“ _Three_. Please. Don’t make a fuss -”

She smiled with gentle reassurance, “Trust your mummy, Mikey. Let me help you.”

*   *   *

She was right about one thing. They were expecting three more for supper – a couple representing an RSPCA foster care family for the mastiff pup and Greg Lestrade. Father Holmes had woken up from his nap with only fifteen minutes to spare and looked quite bemused as his wife gave him the short version of what kind of plot they were all up to. He resolved to smile, nod and shake his head whenever appropriate, above all, not offering up any embellishment. It was why Father was always Mycroft’s favorite parent.

A very energetic Lestrade was the first to arrive. Unlike his ‘better half,’ the attire he chose was much more casual – A dark brown leather jacket, buff colored chamois button-down shirt, jeans and dark-colored trainers. He looked and smelled freshly showered and shaved and Mycroft fought the urge to come up from behind him and steal a whiff of his neck.

“You know, I don’t mind if you show me signs of affection,” Greg turned on one of those moments where Mycroft almost lost himself, “It is part of the ruse, remember?”

“How could I forget,” Mycroft sniffed.

“I mean, not that I mind at all –“

“If you do remember, I was not your first choice.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got to blame that on proximity. I see Sherlock practically everyday; easier to ask him. Also, I didn’t want to inconvenience you.”

“Well, detective inspector, you have.”

Just as Greg opened his mouth, surely for a loathsome apology, Mummy came between them with a tray full of crème fraiche caviar mini-blinis, “Oh, don’t listen to him. Truth be told, you’re saving him from a boring day minding his parents.”

“Mother –“

Father appeared with a glass of champagne, encouraging the D.I. to take it.

“I’m so sorry; I had no idea you had plans,” Greg blurted out after inhaling one of the blinis.

“Don’t be silly,” he smiled blithely, “She wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “If you’ll excuse us, Mother –“

“Yes, of course. Scheme away! I’ll be in the kitchen.”

*   *   *

“I really do apologize,” Greg started as they both entered Mycroft’s study.

“Yes, yes, too late for that now,” Mycroft unbuttoned his jacket and sank down in the chair behind his desk, motioning Lestrade to do the same opposite him.

Greg reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a folded up piece of paper, handing it over to Mycroft.

It was a list of vital statistics, same-sex couple style. Apparently it contained a rough synopsis of the story Greg had already told the RSPCA before this meeting.

Mycroft could tell without looking up that Lestrade was fidgeting, nervous.

So as he continued reading, he went over to the bar area, opened a mini-fridge and pulled out a bottle of champagne, uncorked it and walked back to Greg’s seat to fill his glass.

Lestrade pushed it away. “Thank you, but I’d rather not get pickled.”

“Are you certain, Inspector? It might make the entire evening less painful.”

And then came a surprise. Lestrade got up with the glass, walked over to the bar and emptied it in the sink. When he turned around, his expression was florid with emotion.

“What would be less painful is if - barring you act like you’ve had a lobotomy - you can accept that I’m actually looking forward to this evening, especially now that your parents are here and I get to know them a little better. Contrary to whatever’s in that genius brain of yours, I actually like you, for the…various few times you’ve needed my help, I’ve done my best and always in a state of absolute willingness, sometimes even cheerfully so.

“And finally, just call me ‘Greg.’ That would definitely make this less painful. Is that too much to ask?”

Mycroft looked as though he’d been struck. It was a combination of Lestrade’s words and the vision of him, appearing like a rustic barman behind the counter. It made his armpits sweat and that was infuriating. He licked his lips and blinked. “No, Greg.”

“Good,” Lestrade exhaled and then indicated the paper between them. “Do you have a problem with anything I’ve set up?”

Secrets and lies always brought Mycroft out of his stupor. “No –“

“During the first few weeks, the RSPCA does a few surprise home visits, so I hope you don’t mind if I leave my things here for awhile. I may have to kip with you for a few.”

Mycroft tried valiantly to hide that this bit of information made him want to jump up and down with glee; much in the same way he felt when he got his first hunting rifle.

“I believe you told me that this obligation would take only one hour of my time and that I was not required for any length beyond that.”

And then there was the dimpled, sheepish smile that Mycroft could not deny held him prisoner: “Yeah,” Greg scratched his head, “So excited to have Queenie I didn’t read the fine print –“

_Queenie? Queenie. Must change that very soon._

Mycroft pushed down his disdain and managed a smile, “I’m sure my home is big enough to accommodate you –“

“Again, I’m really sorry. Just put me on the other side of the building, on another floor, perhaps. I mean, we could dress up your bedroom as though I sleep there, but –“

“Please stop talking.” Mycroft looked pained. “You are looking at a person who lies for a living. These romantic comedic shenanigans are not that difficult to suss out.”

“Right.”

And then they were both saved by the shrill Mummy alarm.

“Mikey! Your other guests have arrived!”

*   *   *

Greg hadn’t expected that the couple, Nigel and Martin, would actually bring Queenie; the last time he’d spoken to them, she was still very skittish and recovering from localized mange she’d caught from the chronic confinement she’d suffered from at the puppy mill. Apparently, she’d made a remarkable recovery; the bare patches were starting to grow in new hair, her eyes were brighter and not as red-rimmed as they had been when he’d been there to rescue her.

Still, Mycroft couldn’t resist the urge to inspect her – withers to paws – and do an almost Crufts-like running commentary.

“Mask of brindle, deep gold and red. Considering the size of the dew claw and diameter of the metacarpal pads, I expect she’ll reach 70 centimeters in height and a weight of 68 kilos.”

Queenie’s only response was to lick him with her large, drooling tongue.

“Hello there, she already likes you!” Greg beamed, getting down on one knee so that he both pet the puppy and look into Mycroft’s cool eyes. “What do you think, my love? Good enough for us?”

Mycroft fought the urge to take out his monogrammed handkerchief to wipe away the saliva on his face and gave up an otherwise adoring smile, “She’s quite…sweet. Irresistible, in fact,” he continued as she discovered that tasting one of Mycroft’s brogues was next in her plans.

“No, Queenie,” Martin tugged on her leash to give her a correction. “One of our stipulations is that she attend puppy classes.”

Mycroft screwed up his face in confusion until Greg gave him a jab.

“Obedience school,” he translated.

“Ah yes, of course. How old is she now?”

“Six months,” Nigel piped up.

Pyrenean mastiffs tended to have a long adolescence period – lasting up to the first two years of their lives. What was he getting himself into? But then it hit him. This wasn’t really going to be his dog; this was Greg’s animal. He only had to endure this intrusion into his life for two short weeks.

Then why did that thought suddenly make him sad? Lestrade couldn’t have picked a breed more antithetical to the Holmesian temperament. This kind of large breed was messy and lumbering, a working dog used to herding sheep in the Aragonese mountains, not trudging through the gloomy town house of a member of the British government.

“Greg tells us that you used to help breed Italian greyhounds as a youth,” Nigel brought up cheerfully.

“Y-Yes.”

Apparently Lestrade had done his research. A sideways glance revealed a smirk on his face. _Sherlock._

Nigel kept going, “They’re rather a delicate breed. Prone to a lot of broken bones. Must’ve been quite a challenge.”

And that’s when Mycroft felt a warm arm come around his shoulder.

“Mike has a soft touch, which I think is perfect with Queenie’s sensitive temperament,” Greg gave the shoulder a squeeze, his eyebrows raised.

Mycroft stared daggers through a perfectly timed smile. The D.I. was enjoying this far too much.

“Mother!”

Her answer had come too readily; as though she’d been eavesdropping from her perch in the kitchen, “Dinner’s ready!”

*   *   *

The meal had been designed to both seduce and distract the guests of honor. Lestrade had felt like he was in the middle of a film until Martin marveled that the blinis and quail were right out of _Babette’s Feast,_ which then suddenly made sense. Greg gave Mrs. Holmes a genuine smile of thank you in that moment. She merely responded with a wink after wiping one corner of her mouth.

For a good twenty minutes, Nigel and Martin forgot about the interview and they instead bonded over their love for the Dutch film with Mycroft, putting them all at ease. The wine was flowing and there wasn’t a lull in conversation. Greg tried to ask all the right questions, making a mental note to request later that he and Mycroft watch it together so that he could finally understand all the references that came up. Under all the conviviality lay Father and Mother Holmes’ beatific expressions; before them was the aftermath of Mycroft’s favorite meal and it was almost a test every time she cooked it. _How well do you understand my eldest boy?_

They took an intermission before the cheese and fruit course so that Mycroft could give a tour of his home. The town house was three impressive floors. On rare occasions that both Sherlock and his parents came for a visit, they each occupied a floor; it was a necessary convenience since privacy was of paramount importance to the warring siblings.

The kitchen, dining area and solarium was on the top floor of the complex and surrounding it was a lush rooftop garden. Greg tried very hard not to show that this was his first time seeing Mycroft’s home, clearing his throat often when he wanted to exclaim how beautiful everything looked. What touched him the most was seeing the second set of toiletries in the master bath, not to mention the various photographs of himself smattered throughout the house, some of them obviously Photoshopped, posing together in situations that had never before existed.

Ah, the power of the Government.

But it was more than that. This was a side of Mycroft Greg had never witnessed before. The way he described his morning routine, the way he included Greg in it (albeit a lie, but quite a realistically good one, considering their very different jobs). Mycroft mentioned that he would drop Greg off on most days to work and that sometimes, they’d meet up somewhere for supper. The only truth was that Mycroft was largely a homebody when he wasn’t working. The impeccable taste and utility of every room in the house was evidence of this. In fact, on most days, Mycroft had everything he needed to run the world from his home office.

Basically, it was an ideal living arrangement for an insecure, good-natured, curious and loving animal.

Or three.

*   *   *

Greg lamented that he had no room in his belly for more food and volunteered to take Queenie out for a romp in the garden. Since the dining room faced that part of the roof, Mycroft had a clear view of their play with a glorious sunset as background.

“I’m glad we got you alone, Mr. Holmes,” Nigel said between bites of ripe fig, “We’ve already interviewed D.I. Lestrade separately –“

“I didn’t realize that there were not one but three interviews,” Mycroft frowned.

Martin and Nigel looked at one another before one of them sighed and focused back on the man of the house.

“Truthfully,” Martin began, “there is only one interview. Normally. But Queenie is a very special case. In fact all of the animals we recovered from the drug cartel puppy mill are not usually ones we rehome. Usually, we rehabilitate these kind of dogs on a farm in Sussex to live out their lives as part of an estate bought by one of our benefactors –“

“But we were very impressed by Greg –“ Nigel interrupted.

“As you should be!” Mummy interjected.

“You really should have seen him at the scene, Mrs. Holmes,” Martin continued, obviously overwhelmed by his memories, “Everyone else was either vomiting or crying. But Greg?” Martin stopped to look at his partner and they shared a look of unity.

“He was a savior,” Nigel gushed. “Completely professional, devoted. So of course, we wanted to meet his partner, who we could only imagine is as kind and compassionate as he is –“

Father started to cough. Apparently the sip of wine or bite of cheese he’d taken had gone down the wrong tube. Mummy whacked him on the back and motioned him to take a sip of water before turning back to the couple with a smile, “You were saying?”

“Well, we just wanted to make sure that your commitment to Greg is genuine, that it’s a partnership that has true longevity. Pyrenean mastiffs tend to bond very quickly and are very stubborn about latching themselves onto anyone else; once you’ve chosen them, there’s no going back. Queenie is a special case because we believe she needs a very stable two-person home to help her succeed and overcome her past.”

Mycroft was about to get defensive about their presumptions but then he looked past Martin’s shoulder, beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows and into the garden.

It was dusk now and Greg had found a stray football and was kicking it around. Queenie would pounce on it as soon as it stopped and then the D.I. would get down on all fours and mock bark at her, encouraging her to jump on him like a littermate until he collapsed on his back, her drooling face smothering him with sloppy kisses.

There was an ache in Mycroft’s chest and as much as wanted to explain it away as indigestion, he knew his heart was aching for more than two weeks of inconvenience, fecal disposal and leash tugging walks. So he exhaled deeply and offered up the first genuine, albeit wistful, smile of the entire evening.

“I’ve loved him from afar and near for more than decade. I hope to do more of that until the twilight of my life.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft struggles to achieve a sort of domestic bliss with Greg and Queenie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday to [mycitruspocket](http://my-citrus-pocket.tumblr.com)! Unfortunately, I don't have a gifset/photoset that goes with this chapter, but I hope this suffices. I hope you have the best day xox

*   *   *

“This is an ungodly hour for such a request –“

“Mycroft, it’s when Queenie needs to relieve herself,” Greg pulled his best sheepish grin, “I'd hoped we could start a routine out of it.”

He was in the bedroom doorway, in black and yellow tracksuit bottoms and a white T-shirt, beat up trainers on his feet, leading a very alert, very, very, _very_ awake Pyrenean mastiff puppy on the end of an already deeply chewed-up red leash.

To punctuate her enthusiasm, she rushed to Mycroft’s bed and took a flying leap until she’d tackled him, resting all of her body weight on his chest.

“What was that?” Lestrade tried not to break up into laughter.

The mass under Queenie tried his best to be heard above all the licking and mauling, “Give me ten minutes.”

*   *   *

For five o’clock in the morning, it was pitch black almost and the streets were empty, but to Mycroft, it was as though the sun were shining high in the sky, hot and illuminating.

It was difficult not to notice the sheen on Greg’s forehead, the flush of tomato red the exertion gave his overall complexion.

_You don’t have a longer moniker other than ‘Greg’?_

_‘Idiot’ has more than one syllable. That’s what your brother calls me –_

_You’re sure it’s not ‘Gregory’?_

_Yes, Mycroft. Greg’s what me mum named me according to the certificate. That’s what I’m called._

_Rather perfunctory –_

_But concise. I could call you ‘Mike.’_

_I could also poison your tea._

_I drink coffee, but I think you see my point._

That was the only small talk Mycroft would allow himself and by the tenth minute they were too out of breath (thanks to Queenie) to argue further. Her darting about was far more erratic than he was used to (having been customized to the comfort and regularity of his treadmill). Greg would occasionally offer to take the leash during her unpredictable starts and stops to sniff out a pile of twigs or use a patch of grass to relieve herself, but Mycroft was determined to show how capable he was of adapting.

Well, that and she didn’t seem to get into much of a rhythm with Greg as much as with Mycroft; he didn’t really have much of a choice.

And then the worst that could’ve possibly happened on any given week happened; Queenie had spotted a fellow dog and dog owner across the street and decided to make an unexpected lunge in their direction. Mycroft hadn’t been observant enough to catch it and the next time his right foot planted on the ground, it had twisted and sent him sprawling, falling unceremoniously on his knees and palms to break the fall.

Queenie had gotten away; he’d let go of the leash during the fiasco, but luckily, Greg had been there to grab it from the ground and hold on tight.

“Mycroft! Are you all right?”

Both knees of the expensive highly-breathable trousers he’d carefully chosen to wear for the run had been split, the exposed abrasions bright pink and throbbing with pain.

“Yes,” he muttered through clenched teeth, getting up quickly. He was surprised when Greg took his wrists and splayed open his hands to examine how scratched up his palms were.

“Bad Queenie!” he admonished before turning back to Mycroft, “Can you walk?”

“Of course I can –“ but then he took a few paces before the foot had crumpled back into him, landing him onto the ground once more.

“You’ve hyperextended the joint,” Greg looped the leash around his wrist to keep a barking Queenie from getting away and got down on one knee, “Let’s look at it.”

The sprain was already swelling.

“I know an open coffee shop near here where we can get some ice. Lean onto me. C’mon, Queenie, you bad girl.”

*   *   *

Sure enough, five minutes later, Greg had commandeered an ice pack from a Greek owner of a nearby coffee shop. Mycroft tried to impress Greg with a flawless assemblage of cordial Greek apologies and thank yous, completely out of character but enough to get the swarthy proprietor smiling.

But in the end, all he could concentrate on was on how incredibly attentive his fake partner was to this ridiculous situation.

And how it was the best start to a day he’d ever had in all his life.

*   *   *

Downward Dog was the trendiest obedience school; they’d already opened up five locations in the greater London area. There were adverts on television about their grooming stations and boarding opportunities.

Mycroft was appalled that this bourgeoisie place was the one Greg had chosen Queenie to have her puppy classes. Greg had bought the beginner’s package before they’d even agreed to their temporary living situation so Mycroft had no choice but to meet his ‘partner’ at this establishment, hobble from the car to the class on crutches, resting his leg on an errant chair, and becoming part of a circle of Hell of half-snarling, half-over excited yipping adolescent dogs and their nose-picking owners.

But it really wasn’t that bad; it was a chance for puppies to socialize and become less self-absorbed. Mycroft had accepted that dogs were social creatures, creatures that craved being part of a pack, and that this was the best way for them to gain exposure and achieve focus in an environment that was all too real in its level of mayhem and distraction.

“How’s the ankle?” Greg looked very concerned.

Mycroft waved it off with irritation, “Looks far worse than it feels.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Nigel and Martin, the two RSPCA representatives for Queenie’s case wave from their perch on the outside of the ring of dogs and owners. Their pouts signified their empathy for Mycroft’s injury (Greg had rung them up and told them all) and it infuriated him to be the focus of so much undue pity.

“Our minders are here –“ he hissed.

“Mycroft,” Greg had taken him by the chin and gave him a peck on the lips, “Focus on me and Queenie. It’s about us, nothing more, yeah?”

So this was the first kiss. Greg had acted as though it was nothing (and if their established relationship was to be believed, it was shrewd of him to do so), but to Mycroft, it felt like everything. He immediately felt the blood pumping in his heart rush to his neck and all the way past his cheeks to his temples and his hairline.

He was so confused and frustrated by how the situation had gone so completely out of his control that he’d tuned everything out.

“Love, you have the treats?”

Greg’s warm brown eyes entreated him. “I need a few to teach her to sit. And then it’s your turn.”

Mycroft broke from his stupor and reached into the plastic bag, handing Greg several of the chicken flavored kind, then sat back and tried valiantly to enjoy himself.

*   *   *

Queenie was a very particular puppy. Perhaps it was the breed itself.

There were moments on her daily walks when she would lie on the ground and refuse to move. What was so puzzling was that she would only do this with Anthea and Greg. As soon as Mycroft took the loop, she would happily lumber along as though nothing were wrong. This development was highly inconvenient since that meant that Queenie had to accompany Mycroft to work instead of Greg, as it had been initially planned.

She would not let the British government out of her sight and it was maddening. He couldn’t leave her at his office; if he needed to fulfill an appointment at the Diogenes club, he had to bring her with him. While he was there, she would follow him from room to room. When he made his perch by the hearth to drink his scotch and read his various newspapers, she would flop down her rather leaden self at the foot of the chair and rest her heavy chin on the tip of his right brogue. If he looked down on her with a critical expression, she merely blinked and then slowly her eyes would close and she would fall asleep. Her snoring was deafening in a place of such quiet and Mycroft received quite a few disapproving stares from the club’s members.

“She’s really fallen for the likes of you,” Greg mused, his silhouette in Mycroft’s bedroom doorway, “I wish she wanted to sleep with me like she did in the beginning, but maybe this is a good sign.”

Mycroft stuck to his reading, not looking up to meet Greg’s eyes and snorted, “I don’t know how this is a positive development considering she’s to end up at your flat.”

The silence following that declaration felt awkward, causing Mycroft to look up. All he caught was Greg moving out and down the hallway, his voice trailing behind, “Goodnight. See you and Queenie in the morning.”

*   *   *

It was 1:00 am and Mycroft still hadn’t figured out a way to move such a heavy dog on his bed into a position that didn’t squeeze him into an uninhabitable corner. He was still reading his book, hoping that its didactic, mundane subject matter would lull him into a blissful state of catatonia, but he couldn’t help glancing over at Queenie every now and then.

She was in a ridiculous position, on her back, all four limbs in the air.

And then, all of a sudden, she began to whimper. It was short at first, very high, but quiet. Her right paw began to punch the air, her lips drew back in a snarl and she let loose a quick bark, ending in a whine.

It sounded like she was in pain. Or scared.

Or worse.

Mycroft placed his book down on the nightstand, unsure of what to do next. And then, very carefully, so as not to wake her in her distress, he began to stroke her belly, very lightly, gently.

She stayed asleep, but the whimpers diminished until she was snoring loudly.

After waiting ten minutes to make sure she was at peace, Mycroft tried in vain to move her, realizing that the amount of weight lifting he did as exercise would have to be upped in order to accommodate the needs of this new nightly regimen.

In the end, he curled up on his tiny corner of the bed and successfully succumbed to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade deals with the repercussions of being out of the closet with his new 'partner,' while Mycroft struggles to do what's best for both Queenie and Greg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [Elfbert](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfbert/pseuds/Elfbert) and [WastingYourGum](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WastingYourGum/pseuds/WastingYourGum) for the brit-pick. Also a big hug to my beta on this one, Cori, who apparently now ships Mystrade hard-core even though she's not in the fandom!

*

It had been a week residing at Mycroft’s townhouse, so Greg decided to check on his bedsit before coming into work – if only to pick up his mail. Upon finding a pile of newspapers outside, he cursed himself under his breath as a reminder to knock on the door of his neighbor, in hopes that they would help pick up after them; Greg didn’t want to tempt any home invasions from an apparent absence. He wasn’t living in the worst part of London, but one could never be too careful.

He was about to use his key when he spied the chipped paint. Heaving a sigh, he turned the knob. Sure enough, it moved and the door opened.

“ _Sherlock!_ ”

He didn’t even have to look in the direction of the sofa or turn on the living area lights.

The young detective was bundled up, lying supine and appearing clearly annoyed. His clothes were in tatters and his face and neck wore smudges of grime.

“Homeless network?” Greg asked in lieu of explanation.

“Clearly –“

And then Sherlock stood up and invaded Greg’s personal space, examining him from the top of his head to the tip of his boots.

“The sheen on your forehead indicates a new pore cleansing routine, the lack of the usual stray hairs on your chin you miss due to a cheap shave show that you are using someone else’s brand of razors –“ Sherlock breathed him in deeply, “ – and this scent, aftershave, brand is…Tom Ford, Grey Vetiver…was bought with your natural odor in mind, but not by a _woman_ –“

“Sherlock, I don’t have time for this,” Greg stepped past him and went back to the entryway, picking up the haphazard mess the postman pushed through his slot. But his hands shook.

_Damned deductions._

But why was he nervous? The Greg Sherlock knew reveled in what he could do with that big brain of his, would practically set him up, echoing his words as if to cheer him on.

“I’m late for a press conference. If you want to brief me on any new findings, we need to share a cab to my office. So stop showing off and let’s go.”

“If I weren’t five days without sleep, I’d figure out where you’re staying -”

“Well, then here’s some incentive, Sunshine; if you can do it in the time it takes for us to get to the Met from here, the cab fare is all mine.”

*   *   *

Sherlock paid the fare. Still, he continued to try as they walked through the metal detectors and into the lifts.

_You’re in a new relationship. But it’s not an honest one –_

_I love you like my own kid, but really, you need to put a sock in it._

_You’re not sleeping together._ Yet.

_What does my forehead say? Hmm? That’s me, killing you in my mind palace._

_You don’t have a mind palace._

_Oh, believe me, Sunshine, my castle may not be made of mahogany and marble, but its cheap closets are fit to bursting with imagined attempts at your life._

_It’s a ‘he’ but he’s not altogether the most masculine or debonair –_

Wrong _, Sherlock. Now before I go into that press conference, do you have any new leads that I can possibly use to keep the tabloids at bay? No? Then you’re banished to the couch in my office. Now clear off._

The newest case was a serial killer one. So far there had been no pattern, no profile, and everyone involved was losing free time and sleep as each new body turned up in such random places as a warehouse, abandoned car or tube station bench.

After an exhausting round of questions, Lestrade exited the conference room in weary frustration, barely registering Sally’s litany of the witness interviews they had to do before lunch. But then he caught someone at the far end of the room, standing in the eye of the storm with a very out of place animal at his feet, and instantly felt the burden of ten times as many unsolved cases float off his shoulders. Greg smiled and was about to greet them -

“Mycroft! What are you doing here?” Of course, Sherlock would kill the mood.

Yet, Greg could’ve sworn he saw a glimmer of panic in the usually cool eyes of the British government as he ignored his younger brother and turned to him instead, “I’m sorry, detective inspector, but I cannot have Queenie with me today.”

Greg’s dimple appeared as he nodded and got down on his hands and knees for the mastiff puppy, “How’s my girl? Have you been naughty today?” She, of course, replied with a long session of face licking.

Sherlock was examining Mycroft in a whole new way and pointed a finger.

“So _you’re_ the one –“

“Get _in my office_ ,” there was an undercurrent of danger in Greg’s voice before it became neutral once more, “Good to see you, Mr. Holmes, and thank you for dropping Queenie off –“

“D.I. Lestrade!”

_Oh dear God in Heaven, what now_

Greg turned around once more and sure enough, Nigel and Martin had just stepped off the lifts. “We’re here for the random home visit. Well, obviously, you’re both not at home,” They shook Mycroft’s hand even though it wasn’t welcomed, “but this was the only time your personal assistant said was available.”

“My apologies,” Mycroft’s forced smile was more like a grimace, “Something of a delicate matter came up and I am only here to see if Greg is able to look after her for a few hours –“

“Which I absolutely can, love,” Greg caressed the small of Mycroft’s back before taking the puppy’s lead.

Suddenly, the volume of the busy room went down a notch. Out of the corner of his eye, Greg could see that Anderson had frozen mid-sip in drinking his tea. Sally nearly tripped over a stack of files and tried to act cool a second later.

But really, the frame-able expression of the morning went to a one Sherlock Holmes, whose ice blue eyes blazed almost white in naked fury, his mouth slightly agape, knuckles equally pale from how hard he was clenching his fists.

After a few painfully long seconds, the younger Holmes blinked, drew his lips down in a thin, pinched line, turned on one heel, stalked into Lestrade’s office and slammed the door, flouncing down on the couch with unnecessary dramatic flare.

Greg looked back at Mycroft, Nigel and Martin and let out a sad laugh, “Guess I’ll be petminding two for today.”

*   *   *

It was a not-so-unpleasant coincidence that Sherlock happened to be there when Nigel and Martin decided to stop by Greg’s office. As it turned out, the RSPCA was holding a charity ball and they wanted to honor D.I. Lestrade at the dinner portion of the gala. As a surprise to all involved (and visible disapproval from Sally), Greg declined and instead bestowed all the credit for solving the drug cartel puppy mill-related murders on Sherlock. He gave Sally a quieting-down glare as he described all of the turning points in the file and how it was down to the consulting detective’s gifts that they were able to break the case at all. So a rather nonplussed Nigel and Martin agreed to redesign the invitations so that Sherlock Holmes would be the guest of honor that night.

The latter’s scintillating reply? “Dull.”

All it took for him to agree to attend was a threat of barring him from more crime scenes.

“You wouldn’t _dare._ ”

And then Greg realized how lucky he truly was. “I have another Holmes at my disposal this time. It’s not just about your genius anymore.”

For a moment, he thought Sherlock would laugh, but to his surprise, the expression on his face was one of defeat. “Fine,” he spat out.

Of course, D.I. Lestrade was a darling of the RSPCA so it was a no-brainer that he would be instrumental in helping them make the guest list for the charity ball. John and Mary promised to make an appearance. Toddler Alice was at that age where she kept asking to have a dog, so the Watsons were keen on seeing what animals the facility would be showcasing that night as part of the festivities. Of course, Greg couldn’t do without his number two and three, Sally and Philip. And because Molly helped so much with forensics on the case, she was also put on the list.

But it was only two days before the gala when he realized he didn’t have a decent suit, let alone a tuxedo, in his closet.

“Mycroft,” he managed between bites of toast, “Do you have any old suits you don’t wear any longer? I don’t have anything for this charity ball –“

Mycroft’s deadly stare was an interruption louder than any words.

“I-maybe we can have a tailor let it out in a few areas –“

Mycroft held up a palm to stop him and pulled out his mobile, pressing a button and bringing it up to his ear, “Anthea, make an appointment at Mr. Porter for this afternoon at -?”

Greg scanned his phone for his schedule and put up 5 fingers.

“-five….For D.I. Lestrade. He needs a dinner suit.”

*   *   *

“It’s gorgeous, Mycroft, but I simply can’t afford it.”

The elder Holmes was off to the side picking out a pair of black John Lobb oxfords and looked up to protest, but the words died on his lips.

“Also, when am I ever going to wear it again –“

Mycroft decided his glares weren’t doing the job, set the pair of shoes aside and went up to get a better look, placing one fingertip on Greg’s mouth to close his lips, “Hush.”

It was a Burberry suit made of brushed charcoal-colored cashmere with slim satin lapels. The material was luxurious and fit Greg like a glove but it was the grey heather flecks that made his silver hair stand out even more.

“Mycroft, just let me wear my old suit –“

“Nonsense, consider it a gift from a…” he swallowed, “…a friend.” Clearly, he was still gobsmacked.

This got a warm smile from Greg as he put his hands in his trouser pockets, “I don’t look half bad, do I?”

Mycroft nodded slowly, fighting back an urge to kiss him, “It will do.”

*   *   *

The evening started out with an air of excitement. The press was there in full force and while Mycroft couldn’t really keep his eyes off the dapper looking detective inspector, he had to quietly admit that there had been an unusually shrewd method to his madness of suggesting his younger brother as the guest of honor. The crowd lining the steps and entering the hall was massive. There were a few dignitaries and celebrities amongst the guests – all paying up to 250 quid per plate. Now would there have been this kind of turnout had the no-name D.I. been at the top of the invitation?

Mycroft sensed that from this enthusiasm also came a sense of pride in his work, his community spirit. The more time he spent with Greg, the more he realized how humble and good he was. It didn’t matter that they had very little in common or that he couldn’t hold the same level within a conversation about lofty matters. Mycroft just felt _better_ around him; comfortable in his own skin for the first time in what felt like forever. Even if, with a heaviness in the place where his heart should be, this time together was really a sham and would terminate at the end of the month. There was something about Greg that gave Mycroft a glimmer of hope that at least ‘thank you’ wouldn’t mean ‘goodbye.’

As for Sally, she stalked the couple like a cat, until she found Greg alone at the bar.

“Very dry gin martini. In fact, make that _two._ You want one, Sal?”

“Taking a break, boss,” she held up a glass of club soda with lime, “Mind telling me what you’re doing with his eminence?”

“Not that it’s any of your business but –“

“I mean, _how_ did this happen. It’s not like we ever run into the shirty bastard –“

“Hey!”

“ _And_ I never knew you preferred nancy boys.”

This time, Greg gave her the hard look to knock it off, “Sal, I like him. He makes me happy. You, of all people, should know how hard that has been for me to come by these last few years –“

It was the forcefulness, the conviction of his delivery that stunned her.

“I-I’m sorry, boss –“

“You’re right about one thing: I _am_ your boss. I’ll cut you some slack because we’re not on the job, but that doesn’t mean you get to take the piss out of me or whoever I decide to spend my time with on my day off. Understood?”

“Yes, boss.”

“Good, now please take this drink and talk to someone handsome.”

“I am,” she smiled weakly, accepting the other gin martini in Greg’s hand as a peace offering. “Love you, boss. Just glad you’re happy.”

“I am, Sal. I think I finally am.”

*   *   *

Proximity to the man with whom he was falling in love was both thrilling and terrifying for Mycroft Holmes. The combination made for an exhausting, but strangely languid evening. At the dinner, they sat so close together that their knees often bumped. Greg loved to talk with his hands and he was not unlike Queenie herself, an over-excited, passionate-about-life puppy. Every now and then, Greg wasn’t able to hear a question from one or two of their tablemates, so he would lean over, invading Mycroft’s personal space and place a hand on his thigh. Sometimes (Mycroft believed), Greg had forgotten that his hand had wandered and that’s when the telltale flush of Mycroft’s skin would develop. And then he would feel eyes upon him. He caught Sherlock at the center table, one eyebrow quirked up. They would begin the stare-off then, Sherlock’s gaze full of derision.

 _You’ll hurt him_ , it said.

What Sherlock couldn’t really deduce was how willing Mycroft would allow himself to be hurt instead.

*   *   *

It was past two in the morning that same night and Queenie had had her last walk to relieve herself. Greg had noticed how weary Mycroft appeared and offered to do it alone. Now that they were both back in Lestrade’s bedroom and Mycroft, in the master bedroom, the latter began removing his waistcoat and unbuttoning his shirt when he heard a commotion from down the hall.

“Queenie, come!”

Suddenly, there was a mad scraping _clickity-clack_ of canine nails heading roughly in his direction. Mycroft turned around and Queenie had pushed open his door with her nose, and gave one little bark before vaulting her massiveness onto the bed and settling smack-dab in the middle of it.

Shortly afterwards, there was a ridiculously light rap on the doorjamb. Greg’s face appeared around the corner, “You decent?”

“Fortunately,” Mycroft sniffed, “Is there a problem?”

Greg sighed, the lines on his face deeper than normal from worry. “She won’t get on my bed. She doesn’t want to sleep with me.”

“What is the best way to solve this problem, do you imagine?”

Another sigh. “Perhaps she likes the master bed over the guest one?”

Mycroft smiled, happy that Greg had read his mind. “Let’s switch rooms for tonight –“

“You don’t mind? I mean, I’m sorry to put you out –“

“All of the rooms in this house are very comfortable; you will have done no such thing.” Mycroft then proceeded to take a few necessities to move with him to Lestrade’s room. Before leaving, he couldn’t resist a last glance; Greg looked so boyish in a vest and pajama bottoms. “Sweet dreams to you both.”

“Thanks, Mycroft. You’re the guv.”

*   *   *

Mycroft was just about to fall asleep by reading _The Art of War_ for the twenty-sixth time when he heard another scraping at the door. It was rhythmic and light but insistent. He got up and barely opened the door a crack when he was attacked by Queenie; he put his arms back to break the fall, but in a flash she had taken residence on his chest and stomach, licking his neck as though she hadn’t seen him in ages.

Mycroft opened his eyes to see an apologetic Greg in the doorway.

“I’m so sorry. I suppose it’s not the bed she likes best.”

He said it with such a despairing sadness that it shocked the unshockable Mycroft Holmes. And it made his heart ache that this man, who deserved so much, could feel such unhappiness. He licked his lips and tried for Plan B. Even though it would probably mean he would not be able to sleep at all that night.

“Let me come back to my own bed. Let’s put her in between us. We’ll sleep together. That way, she will get used to your scent. Eventually she’ll find out what a stern taskmaster I am and defer to you. It’s only a matter of time.”

“You’re sure?” Oh how Mycroft yearned to get rid of that beautiful pout, “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. You’re being inconvenienced enough as it is –“

“I seem to recall you once telling me that you liked me; that this wasn’t a chore for you? Well, the feeling is mutual. I admit, I was skeptical at first, but I’ve grown to quite enjoy your company, your presence in my often gloomy home –“

“Mycroft, your place is _beautiful._ ”

_Oh, but my dear, only with you in it_

“I thank you for that. I only hope that once this is done, we can rendezvous occasionally in Hyde Park so that I can keep up with Queenie’s training and progress?”

“You’re the only one she listens to so you can count on it.”

*   *   *

From the depth and breadth of Queenie’s snore, it appeared that the only creature getting sleep that night was her; Mycroft wasn’t the only person finding it difficult to relax. Even though Greg had turned so that his back faced Queenie, Mycroft could tell from the lightness of his breathing and its lack of rhythm that he was wide awake.

“Greg, how long have you been a detective inspector?”

Lestrade turned over to face him, smiling at first – clearly relieved that he wasn’t the only one with insomnia – before his expression became contemplative.

“Well, it’s been two years since Sherlock’s been back from the dead. And he was two years dead.” One could hear the cogs turning in his brain: “Ah about fifteen years, give or take a few,” he grinned sideways, “Why do you ask?”

“I would expect that after all the success you’ve had giving my brother access to these unsolved homicides that you would’ve been promoted to DCI by now.” Mycroft’s frown was as deep as his disapproval.

“Nah, that’s not important,” Greg folded his arms so that his hands cupped the back of his head, obviously lost in nostalgia for the old days, “What’s important is that we’ve taken murderers and rapists, pedophiles, you name it, I’ve seen it – off the streets. London is safer and it’s not because of me and my piss-poor brain. I mean, I can’t believe I have the energy to do this anymore, but I do. I work hard; my team works themselves ragged. But your brother? He does the brainwork and I can’t never forget or take for granted how important that is.”

“It’s a fine speech but save it for Sherlock’s eulogy,” Mycroft whispered and closed his eyes.

There was a long silence in the darkness and for a moment, Mycroft thought he’d made Lestrade angry.

“Thank you for caring about that,” Greg replied softly, “Nobody ever asks me how I feel, but really, I’m happy the way things are. Really, I am.”

Somehow, some way, the next thing Mycroft remembered was waking up gently late the next morning. And Lestrade was snoring in tandem with Queenie. He turned over and hid his smile in the pillow, an idea growing in his head, a secret from all, a secret from God Himself.

*   *   *

Greg came into work and checked the time. That’s what you started with when people around you were staring your way and acting funny. _Did I come in late? Am I too early? Did I wake up in an episode of Black Mirror?_

Sally seemed to be the only person going about her usual business. So of course, she was the only person he felt safe taking aside and asking.

“What’s going on? Am I getting sacked? What did Sherlock do this time?”

The questions tumbled out and around like laundry in a washer but it didn’t faze Sally.

“Gregson’s expecting you in his office,” she offered up grimly, “I wouldn’t make him wait any longer.”

*   *   *

The quietude of the Diogenes Club was rarely disturbed. Historically, there was only one notable disturbance up until that point and the perpetrator had been John Watson. Now, there was about to be a second.

Mycroft could tell from his fireside perch that - Queenie at her usual pose, chin atop his brogue - the voice of the irate person in the foyer belonged to a one _DCI_ Lestrade.

“I’m sorry, but I am living as his _partner_ and his assistant said that he’d be here…No, I will _not_ calm down!”

“Come, Queenie,” Mycroft put down his newspaper and pat his thigh, urging her to follow him to the foyer.

*   *   *

Greg was pacing in front of the windows and making a scene the likes of which Mycroft and the club had probably never seen. It was a good thing that the room he’d moved them to was soundproof.

“It didn’t take me much to find out where a sudden large endowment to the Met came from. You didn’t really cover your tracks very well –“

Mycroft looked as though he’d been physically hit, “I thought you’d be pleased. You deserve that promotion. Everyone at your workplace knows you deserve it. Sometimes institutions overlook what is so obvious. And the Met needs the resources, believe me –“

And then Greg stopped pacing, his hands on the desk, gripping the corners, his head low. What issued forth next was tense but preternaturally calm: “I didn’t want it this way.”

“What did you do?” Now Mycroft was slowly simmering in his growing anger. The amount of the endowment was quite a large sum.

“I rejected it,” Greg finally lifted his head, his expression defiant, but not without a surprising streak of tears trailing down his cheeks.

“Then you’re a fool!” Mycroft rarely showed his true emotions but his suppression of them had finally reached its boiling point, “You and your division brought down an entire Colombian drug cartel in London and you’re _too proud_ to accept its rewards because of how it was attained –“

“Mycroft, have you ever tried to deduce _why_ I let your brother look at my cases?”

It was a non-sequitur that threw Mycroft off guard. “It’s obvious. You need them solved.”

“I’m surprised,” Greg laughed then and it wasn’t pleasant like it normally was, “I’m surprised you can’t, or perhaps won’t? Go deeper. Remember when we met? What state was Sherlock in at the time, hmm? You were trying to get him into rehab for the sixth time. Nothing was working. Nothing except the cases I gave him. I promised that for every case I gave him, he had to be six months sober. But I had to work up to that. For every crime scene he got to see, he had to be a week sober.”

“I remember that. You were clever –“

“Mycroft, the reason why I let your brother take credit is because I care about him and by extension, _you_. I’ve seen addiction tear apart families and I didn’t want that for him. I didn’t want that for _you_. So you see, I don’t give a rat’s arse about a promotion. I care about _family_.”

A sadness, a layer of disappointment like thickening fog began to rise and permeate the room.

“I’m going to the townhouse and taking all my things and going back to the bedsit. I need…time away. To think –“

Greg walked to the door and was about to open it.

“But what about Queenie?” Mycroft’s voice had never felt so overshadowed, so small.

Greg came back and went down on one knee, absorbing her kisses through his tears.

“You’re good with her. She loves you. Don’t worry about her.”

Greg gave Queenie a last parting kiss on her wet nose, got up, gave Mycroft one last look and left the club.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft does everything he can to redeem himself. Queenie struggles with acute depression. And Greg finally comes to his senses.

*

Nigel and Martin had one last random house visit to do and it was imminent. Mycroft found it difficult to balance his daily duties with this impending dilemma. It was the first time when he knew where his quarry was, yet was paralyzed as to how to approach him. And it was both fascinating and devastating; devastating in how it occupied and absorbed thoughts meant for higher thinking and fascinating in how profound his very being was permeated by the intensity of such an individual, a force of nature Mycroft Holmes had taken for granted because he thought Greg was a human being he could predict.

But emotion was not something Mycroft was well versed in or had practice in understanding. Greg Lestrade, he’d finally accepted, was steeped, driven, steered by that very aspect of his being and if he was to be loved properly, Mycroft would have to do some serious soul searching and changing. And that fascinated him to no end. No one in his life so far made relationships so complicated and un-boring, that motivated him to find out ways to be a better person, to live life in a manner that he thought previously was clichéd and overtly romantic. And after giving himself and Greg a week to find a lull in the storm, Mycroft arrived at his bedsit, heart in his hands.

“Greg, it’s me. Please let me in. I have things for you.”

He would wait for the mandatory Mycroftian five minutes of impatience. He would wait for thirty, an hour, whatever it took –

“Go away!”

Mycroft looked down at the baleful eyes of their puppy. “Queenie’s here. Don’t you want to say ‘hello’?”

A long silence of several seconds commenced.

“Of course I do.”

“Then open the door!”

“I don’t want you to see me here.”

“Oh for God’s sake!” In his frustration, Mycroft pulled himself back and hurled his entire shoulder into the door, determined to break it down.

“Bloody Hell! What are you doin’?”

It took two tries from Mycroft and almost a broken humerus before a wide-eyed, haggard Greg finally opened his door.

“You know I’m not used to leg work, Greg,” Mycroft was out of breath, “Your hospitality at this moment would be much appreciated.”

*   *   *

Lestrade wasn’t living in total squalor, but it had become, by some definition, a harkening back to his college days. Empty bottles of scotch littered the recycle bin and half-eaten containers of Thai takeaway were stinking up the refrigerator.

“Why are you needlessly torturing yourself?” Mycroft was good enough to recognize his faults in this debacle more than Greg would probably ever know, but it was a valid question.

“They think I’m mad for turning down the promotion,” he began, “But everyone knows we’re a couple and if it’s because you’re smitten with me, I lose the respect of everyone on the force, people I’ve struggled with for over a decade to believe in me, d’ya know what that feels like?”

Mycroft shut his eyes tightly and absorbed the blame with everything he had.

“There aren’t words in any language to express how deeply in the wrong I am.”

His breathing came in rapid strokes. He’d written this down days ago and had committed to memory this giving of self.

“I have wounded your pride and worse, your name. I often forget that due to my station, not everyone appreciates the short cuts in life that my kind can provide. I miscalculated your level of integrity due to my own weaknesses and I will never let that happen again. I do not expect you to forgive me, but I will do everything in my power to correct my mistakes in hopes that you will accept me back into a friendship I was becoming fond of and found comfort in.”

The silence that came after was torture to his ears but Mycroft endured it and held his breath.

“’Friendship’? You value that with me?” Never had Mycroft ever witnessed a man who cried so honestly, so openly.

“I value anything you’re willing to share with me,” he swallowed the volume of what he really wanted to say – that he was in love and he would do anything to make Greg love him back.

“But I have an idea,” Mycroft said instead. “Queenie is meant to be here, with you. So let’s clean up this place and live here for awhile –“

“You’re mad.”

“No, I’m practical.”

“But this is a doll-sized version of your townhouse. It doesn’t even compare –“

“All that matters to me is your relationship with this animal and there is no point in trying to deter me from my ends.”

“You sound like a Bond villain.”

“You have not been the first to observe such a characteristic.”

“All right, I’m properly scared of you now. What do you want to do?”

*   *   *

The first thing Mycroft had Anthea and the contractor she hired do was rip out the carpet and install granite tile. Because Queenie was a puppy mill dog, she was prone to having accidents. Her fear of the rain (and it rained often) caused her to refuse going out for walks to relieve herself. A granite tile made for easier cleanup with less collateral damage to Greg’s bedsit. Normally, the renovation would take more than a week, but that was only if you didn’t have connections with the British government.

Mycroft’s natural fastidiousness required that the kitchen be spotless and the sleeping area not have bed sheets more than a week old. While living at the townhouse, Greg had become accustomed to this rule and it was easy to transfer over into his own living area. Still, he couldn’t stop being surprised on the rare day when he’d come home to Mycroft cooking in the kitchen, an attentive Queenie at his heels, hoping for scraps. Usually Mycroft would demonstrate a new trick or command she’d learn under his tutelage, but he never explained or commented on how he found the time to teach her in the first place. Regardless, Mycroft was adamant that Greg learn how to continue these lessons in his absence and that made him sad in a way he didn’t want to think about.

At night, Mycroft was excessively strict with Queenie. He didn’t allow her on the bed and would spend close to an hour reinforcing that she sleep in the new dog bed he’d purchased. It was equal parts poignant and distressing that he would take on a new attitude with her, since she clearly adored him so much, but he never wavered. Mycroft refused to take her to work with him and there were a few days in the beginning when Greg’s colleagues would gather their files and head off to the coffee shop or pub to work because her howling at his office door was too distracting. Sometimes Greg would give in and come to the Diogenes Club with her in tow, but now that he’d made a fuss before, he wasn’t let in again.

“You’re distancing yourself from her and I understand why, but it’s needlessly cruel.”

They were in Greg’s tiny bed together, a snoring Queenie on the floor.

“That’s where you’re wrong. She’s going to be _your_ dog. I am being, as the song says ‘cruel to be kind.’”

“You know Nick Lowe?”

“I am full of surprises.”

And he was. Especially the day when Greg came back to the bedsit to find Queenie on top of a napping Mycroft’s chest, an open book laying on her head. Greg made sure to get a few camera shots with his mobile as proof, content to never share them with anyone else.

*   *   *

And then one day, it arrived. The moment Mycroft Holmes’ heart properly shattered into pieces.

It was on their early morning run when Queenie broke away from a trailing Mycroft and went after a much faster Greg. She matched his pace and when they finally stopped, she tackled Greg to the ground and rewarded him with a million kisses.  
His laughter filled all of Hyde Park and it made Mycroft smile. He’d made the pout disappear, as beautiful as it was, and that was all that mattered.

*   *   *

Nigel and Martin had called to say that they would be late for the final interview, so Mycroft decided to watch Greg and Queenie play in the rooftop garden from the comfort of the glass solarium while he waited. They had developed a game that would wear her out effectively; Greg would throw a squeaky ball into some shrubbery and when she went after it, he would run and hide. She would then drop the ball and come looking for him.

Mycroft regarded the whole thing with a level of disdain; the fact that it left the players with muddy patches and grass stains, never mind how ungentlemanly crawling all over the flower beds happened to look. But when Greg did it with Queenie, Mycroft could only wrap his long, thin fingers around his mug of tea, while his pale eyes followed their progress with some kind of rapt attention, as though it were a new televised sport. He’d try in vain to concentrate on the business pages of the morning paper, but then Queenie would give her short barks and he’d be torn away to see what all the fuss was about. Every time she tackled Greg was a source of crude amusement; it was a wonder why he would let himself be so mauled, gnawed and nipped.

“Ah, gentlemen. Welcome back.”

Nigel and Martin had been led to the rooftop by the maid, Anna, and they, too, had been caught watching the play in the garden.

*   *   *

Since the clouds were at bay, everyone decided to have a meal set out in the open air of the rooftop patio. By now, Queenie was understandably tired from all her roughhousing with Greg and was asleep in the fort made up from all the men’s legs under the table.

“I probably don’t have to ask you how well the month you’ve spent with Queenie has been going,” Nigel regarded between bites.

Mycroft smiled and refilled his guests’ glasses of wine.

“And obviously, we can see how happy and well-adjusted she is – with both of you,” Martin added. “So really, this meeting is about how you envision your future and if there will be any changes or additions you’ll be making to your living conditions. Mastiffs can live up to fourteen years, so this is definitely a commitment.”

Mycroft was about to open his mouth, but to his surprise, Greg was ready with an answer.

“I think this place is big enough to have an additional playmate and companion for Queenie, don’t you think, Mycroft?”

All the stunned man could do was nod.

Greg’s arm around him tightened gently, warmly before he set his eyes back on the other couple, “I’d prefer adopting a child, or entertaining the idea of surrogacy. I think Mycroft would be wonderful with children; I have one who’s already grown from a previous marriage and if anything, having a puppy has made me miss playing with her when she was young. Queenie definitely gives me a second fatherhood.”

It was a mouthful, this myth, this fantasy, and for a moment, Mycroft almost believed Greg was being sincere. Oh, how he wished it wasn’t part of the sham.

“Don’t you agree, love?”

Their faces were inches apart and there was a depth to Greg’s brown eyes, a tone to his gravelly voice –

“I think…that’s what people who love each other do, yes, of course I agree.”

Greg smiled then, full wattage, and ended it with a peck on the lips. And for a second, it was as though the other men in the garden had faded away.

“That’s sounds perfect,” Nigel murmured.

Greg laughed and placed his hand on Mycroft’s thigh under the table, “Well, we hadn’t really had a lot of time to talk specifics, but I mean, I, from experience, know what it’s like to be a dad, but really, the patience and dedication _this_ man has,” he looked back into Mycroft’s eyes, “I know he really loves Queenie; he may be harder on her than I am –“

“We all have one of those!” Martin piped in.

“I think you’ll make a really fine father someday, my love,” Greg nudged his nose into his partner’s and Mycroft almost fainted from feeling his breath on his skin.

All of this was heady and he just wanted someone to wake him up because this was so obviously his mind tricking him with a painful dream.

Mycroft swallowed and trained his eyes back on their guests, “Well, now, are there any more questions?”

*   *   *

After the RSPCA reps had left, Greg was adrift. He felt so goddamned vulnerable with his hopes and wishes, it physically hurt him to pick through all the hangers in the closet and pack up his clothes.

He cursed himself because he could feel during the interview that Mycroft was uncomfortable. Maybe Greg had been too intense, but now it was too late to measure out the words more carefully, glean over them so that no trace of presumption was there. He shut his eyes tightly, going over what he’d said, realizing that he’d lost himself in the idea of a life with Mycroft and that it had manifested as a verbal summary of a month’s daydreamt images that his body couldn’t suppress any longer.

Greg was stuck on one memory and it paralyzed him from thinking he could hope for more.

_Then you’re a fool_

Mycroft had called him ‘fool’ in the midst of that terrible argument, but the term had haunted him every time he imagined his feeling for the man was mutual. And then that other dreaded word: ‘friend.’ Mycroft had clearly set the limits, but Greg was finding it difficult to imagine that he could _only_ do that. And of course, the irony didn’t escape Greg that he had been the one to set the rules from the beginning and now he couldn’t follow them himself.

Only a fool would fall in love with someone unattainable and in the span of one month of his already long life, that’s exactly what had happened to Greg Lestrade.

“Queenie and I are here to help, if you need any.”

They were in the doorway, Mycroft’s small, but clearly warm smile peeking through. Queenie was now tall enough that he could easily reach her head with his hand without bending and at present, she was enjoying a good scratch between the ears.

Greg wanted to burn the image of them together in his mind. He wanted to say a million things, but he felt he’d said too much already.

“Thank you.”

*   *   *

Over the next few weeks, Greg made sure to pay extra attention to Queenie. They had a very set schedule in the mornings; they would have breakfast together before taking a cab to the Met. The first few days were good, but then Greg began noticing that she grew restless by mid-afternoon and began pacing back and forth in front of his office door. Eventually she would get tired enough to fall asleep, her nose nearest the crack at the bottom of the door.

In the evenings, Greg would try to share a bit of the takeaway he’d brought home, but instead she would eat her dog food from her dish and then lay down in the kitchen. At bedtime, she would obey him and lay down on her mat on the floor, but when Greg woke up, he’d find her asleep by the door once again.

And her mood was different. She didn’t howl. She didn’t bark much anymore for that matter. He tried to play ‘fetch and find’ at Hyde Park, but it only lasted a few minutes before she wanted to just fall asleep by the benches. She didn’t reject the affection Greg gave her, but she was much more subdued when it came to giving it back.

*   *   *

Mycroft wasn’t doing well at all. At work, he found himself snapping at his staff for the smallest infractions. He walked everywhere feeling as though he was missing an article of clothing on his body. At home, it was too dark, too quiet. And that infuriated him because dark and quiet was something he took great pride in enjoying. The atmosphere had been so oppressive that Mycroft had even entertained the idea of going to a pub or a café _just to be around people_ and the fact that such a banal thought should even enter his mind made him furious with himself.

So then of course, he’d pour himself a brandy to still his overactive brain and calm his nerves. After the first few days, he’d told Anna to clean the guest room down the hall from his; he’d not entered it since Greg had packed up and left. Sometimes he’d walk by it, tempted to go in, for what good reason was anyone’s guess. But most of the time, he’d return to the kitchen, try to make himself a sandwich and fail miserably, finding himself staring a full minute at Queenie’s spotlessly clean stainless steel dish.

After a few not-so-wee drams of scotch, Mycroft would have the fortitude to finally walk into the guest room and do a small tour. The darker side of his brain would wonder if Greg had taken anything with him – as a memento – but then Mycroft would shake free of such an idea.

In fact, it was painful to see that the opposite had happened; apparently Greg had packed only the articles of clothing and toiletries he’d arrived with on that first day. The bottle of Grey Vetiver had been left on the sink in the guest bath. And when Mycroft opened the closet, his heart broke even more.

On a hanger was a garment bag and on the floor were the John Lobb oxfords. Mycroft unzipped the bag and out peeked the charcoal-colored brushed cashmere material of the dinner jacket.

*  *   *

A month passed and for a week, the city was flooded with downpours that never seemed to cease. Greg was considering buying stock in puppy pads because Queenie, having discovered she didn’t like thunder and lightning, refused to go on walks at all.

And then one morning, the sun shone through a cloud in the sky and the pavement everywhere had had enough of a respite to dry up. Greg decided to call in sick and make the day about Queenie. They were both depressed as of late, having had little exercise outside due to the rain. So Greg scrounged through his wardrobe for the tracksuit, realizing he’d hung it up instead of stuffing them in his dresser drawer.

He opened the closet door and fingered through the clothing. His hands made contact with a black garment bag that didn’t fit in with all the others. Greg’s brow furrowed in confusion. He unzipped it to find the Burberry suit, which was impossible because he’d remembered he’d made a point of leaving it back at Mycroft’s townhouse. He dipped his hand into the inside pocket and pulled out the copies of the keys to his bedsit he’d made for Mycroft during their short time cohabiting at his flat.

The next few minutes were spent putting on his exercise clothing in an emotion-flooded daze. In his mind, he revisited the charity ball and how good it felt to tell Sally that he was happy and even more, that it was true. He remembered the trip to Mr. Porter and how attentive Mycroft had been, how kind he was to the tailor.

And then, all of a sudden, he felt as though he’d been hit by a thunderbolt.

Mycroft had introduced Greg to the tailor as ‘my partner.’ He hadn’t needed to do that. The tailor wasn’t instrumental to the ruse; Nigel and Martin weren’t there to study their relationship. Was it a slip of the tongue? No. Mycroft never said anything he didn’t mean.

_Oh God, Sherlock’s right. I_ am _an idiot._

Greg suddenly felt as though he were running out of time. The clock read 6:30 am. Too early? _Bugger, bugger,_ fuck _it._

He zipped up his jacket and pulled out his mobile. Surprisingly, Mycroft picked up after only two beeps.

“Greg?”

“Mycroft,” Greg was staring at Queenie and suddenly her ears pricked up. “I know it’s a work day for you, but I was going to take Queenie to Hyde Park. Feel like meeting us at the entrance to the leash-free area?”

There was a long silence, followed by a strange rustling. When Mycroft’s voice came back on the line, it was muffled a bit, “Meet you in half an hour.”

*   *   *

Queenie couldn’t wait to get out into the open and sniff the air. She was pulling on the lead so hard that Greg had to loop it three times around his fist so that he could slow her down enough to keep up with her gait. He promised from that day forward that he would get back to socializing her with other dogs, perhaps pay for a membership at a local doggy daycare. It wasn’t fair that he was her only playmate and that was perhaps the reason for her acute depressive state.

As they approached the entrance to the off-leash area of the park, Greg thought he could see a man who looked like Mycroft – tall and lean – but he shook off the idea when he could see clearly that the person in question was also holding a lead to a large breed dog. But as he approached, he realized something and stopped in his tracks.

The man had spied him and smiled.

The man was definitely Mycroft Holmes and the animal tethered to him was definitely, definitely another Pyrenean mastiff puppy.

Everything Greg had planned to say up until this point – all the apologizing he wanted to do – flew out a proverbial window. His mind erased everything from before and now was being filled with a myriad of new questions. Adding to that was the physical strain of holding back Queenie; her tail was whipping back and forth at triple its normal speed. In contrast, the other puppy was curious but exuded an unusual calm.

Mycroft got down on one knee and addressed the dog beside him while petting their girl, “George, this here is Queenie. And up there,” he smiled, “is the man who belongs to her, Greg Lestrade.”

Full of love, his heart beating a mile a minute, Greg decided to take a deep breath and play along. He used the hand motion that Queenie knew was ‘sit,’ “Stay. Good girl.” He waited until the lead was slack and tried to ignore her whines.

Greg then got down on one knee, now at eye level to both the new puppy and Mycroft and began to pet the new dog, “Hello, George,” he said, and the puppy responded by offering up one paw so that Greg could shake it, “nice to meet you.”

“Nigel and Martin called me when George’s adoptive family realized they couldn’t devote enough time to him. He has epilepsy and they wanted to know if I could recommend anyone who would be interested in fostering him until they could find a more permanent situation. So I offered up myself, not expecting anything beyond that. Our adoption was finalized last week, so now I’m his.”

“You mean, ‘we’re his.’” Greg corrected, “I have a feeling Nigel and Martin aren’t aware that we live separately.”

Mycroft’s silence and frown translated into an affirmative to Greg. Both men drew themselves up. The puppies had finished doing their introductions and were now impatient to begin their play.

“Let’s set them loose and sit by that bench to watch. I think we have a lot of catching up to do.”

“Quite.”

*   *   *

Greg, with some grim realization, knew that Mycroft was using this effusive reunion with Queenie as a way to stall, and in some ways, he couldn’t really blame her. As soon as she was let off her lead, she launched the full breadth of her enthusiasm upon him, nearly knocking Mycroft down with her affection. The latter took all of it in his stride but it was also clear the depth of his devotion to her, despite having kept himself away for so long.

By the time Greg and Mycroft had found a shady spot from which to watch George and Queenie, the puppies had explored the perimeter of the fenced in area and were now busy playing with one another, testing their ground and figuring out who was the dominant in their new friendship.

“I know you have many questions,” Mycroft finally broke the silence.

“My face is not that difficult to read, but yes, I do.”

“First of all, I did not lie to Nigel and Martin. They know that we do not live together.”

“What?”

“You are a bad influence on me,” Mycroft’s smile was bittersweet, “I find it harder and harder to practice mendacity now that I know the pleasure of living without it.”

“So why would they trust you with another special needs animal?”

Mycroft stared out beyond where they were, into some unknown focal point.

“I don’t know. I’ve stopped trying so hard to deduce the human condition because it makes very little sense to me anymore. Whenever emotion, particularly _sentiment_ is involved, nothing slots into place. The permutations and combinations do not compute. In the end, Nigel and Martin stupidly trusted me with this beautiful animal –“

It was clear, the way Mycroft tracked George’s progress in interacting with the other dogs in the area that he had bonded fiercely with him. “And I think I perhaps gave in to an impulse because he reminded me of myself and how easy it was for others to give up on me in my time of need – none of which you know about. But taking care of him has been the highlight of this month. It helps me deal with certain losses with a quiet dignity.”

They spent a good five minutes in companionable silence, just enjoying how well their puppies interacted with the others in the park.

“I’m glad George makes you happy, Mycroft.”

Greg expected a response but there was none. He loved being with Mycroft in this way but he was growing angry with himself for reneging against things he’d promised he’d say when he finally saw him once more. He didn’t want to wallow in this cowardice anymore and risking humiliation, Greg realized that in order to be free of his love of Mycroft Holmes, he had to speak his heart.

“I have an apology and a confession. Which would you like to hear first?”

It must have caught Mycroft off-guard because he immediately turned from his observation of their two mastiffs to focus on Greg.

“Statistically, apologies are 67% more positive than confessions. So I will take the apology first.”

Greg smiled. God he was so in love it hurt him to his bones, “I am very sorry that I asked this much of you, to pretend to be lovers in order for me to selfishly obtain a pet. I realize that outside of the physical inconvenience, I incurred unforeseen mental –“

“Oh for Christ’s sake, don’t use my style of verbiage. It’s not you and I’d rather you be yourself.”

Oh he wanted to kiss him, he did, “All right. I’m not sorry I started this mess because what I got out of it is Queenie and that I’m madly in love with you.”

Mycroft didn’t move a muscle. There wasn’t even a twitch in his face. But his breathing had sped up. “I believe you moved to the confessional phase. Please tell me that what was just said is not a hoax.”

“Oh, Mycroft,” Greg wanted so much not to be aware of how many people were around them, how inappropriate it would be to just take him, hands cupping his chin and kiss him right in this moment to say what words could not.

So instead, he grasped his own hands, squeezing them together until they were both stark pink and white.

“I want to show you, but because I respect you, I will tell you instead; I love you. I love you so much that I physically ache to be without you. Everything I’ve ever said to you is real. It’s not fakery. It’s not a sham. I love that Queenie is mine but it can’t be the same if you’re not part of my life.”

It was more than he’d ever expressed to anyone, but all of that was interrupted because Queenie was pushing Mycroft’s palm with her nose. In fact, she was whimpering and barking, striking his whole hand in the direction to where George was sitting still, against a tree.

“Oh, no,” Mycroft’s eyes went wide, “He’s going to have a seizure.”

Both he and Greg ran over to the younger pup and began clearing a space that would be safe for him to have his episode. Sure enough, George’s limbs stiffened and he fell to one side, his jaw chomping. The puppy began to salivate profusely and let go his bowels. It was a horrifying sight, but Mycroft was only focused on how well he was breathing. And then, to Greg’s surprise, Mycroft began doing mouth-to-nose on George.

It continued for a full minute and a half this way, a crowd of concerned onlookers shading them from the sun. When Mycroft was satisfied with George’s pulse and his breathing, he stopped his ministrations.

And then he reached over to Queenie (who had never left George’s side) and covered her muzzle in kisses.  
“Oh, you beautiful girl, thank you.”


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's townhouse will never be the same and thank goodness for that.

*

When Greg agreed to move in with Mycroft, the latter hadn’t fully come to terms with just how much that would change his life.

They had their first domestic over what to do with Greg’s renovated bedsit. In the interest of keeping the peace, they decided to stay undecided until Mycroft had the brilliant idea of purchasing the place from the owner and turning it into a safe house for undercover police. Again, it was a gift to the Met from a gentleman in love with a policeman, but Greg was wise enough to read the subtext and accept the generous offer this time; the only thing he wished to keep for himself was one granite tile square. Still, Mycroft found difficulty in understanding just why his partner wanted such a thing. Apparently, there were mysteries in his life he would never solve.

The actual moving in was also traumatic. Despite the obvious pleasure of having Greg and Queenie back in his life, Mycroft was still an introverted creature of solitary habits that he found difficult to break or find a happy medium. He decided to convert the guest bedroom into a home office for Greg, complete with access to high-speed wi-fi and five phones lines. Greg insisted in keeping his ratty pullout couch from the bedsit; it was a way of preserving the different hours they kept and it was considerate of him to sometimes crash there after a long overnight pursuit of a case instead of waking Mycroft up in the master bedroom.

As for their sex life, both agreed to take it slow. Greg was learning through their attempts at cuddling on the couch (their first was while _finally_ getting Mycroft to show him _Babette’s Feast_ ) that the man he was in love with needed time to warm up and get comfortable. It had nothing to do with Greg himself; as it turned out, Mycroft had a tendency to get over stimulated and for a man who was used to being in control of his faculties, losing that aspect of himself took a bit of getting used to. In fact, one of the greatest things about Mycroft Holmes (the characteristic that often made Greg grin from ear to ear the morning after) was just how damned responsive the man was in bed.

But before they could even begin to explore each other in the bedroom, there were the puppies to consider – and their sleeping arrangements. George was very good at staying on the floor, but Queenie was an entirely different animal. The first time Mycroft made a moan in bed, she leapt up and barked, jumping up onto the space between them.

_She’s afraid I’m hurting you._

Greg thought it hilarious; a nonplussed Mycroft, less so.

Trying to shut George and Queenie out of their bedroom didn’t work either. The latter howled so loudly that Mycroft’s townhouse security detail interrupted their kissing with a phone call asking if everyone was all right.

In the end, Mycroft agreed to try to be as quiet as he could (which heightened the stimulation in a way he’d never experienced before) and that seemed to work. As a reward for their good manners, Queenie and George were allowed to sleep with them in the afterglow.

Mycroft was about to fall asleep when Greg kissed him again.

“I had a lovely dream last night.”

“Mmmm.”

“You had a little boy sitting atop your shoulders and we were in a field, watching Queenie and George herding sheep.”

“One day at a time, my dear. One day.”

FIN


End file.
